Not Once
by tellmesomethinglove
Summary: One-shots inspired by the season four finale. Captain Swan.
1. Chapter 1

She never told him.

Not once.

Sometimes she wondered what his reaction might be if she whispered it casually over coffee, with Henry seated at the opposite end of the diner, poring over the latest theory regarding Operation Mongoose.

The confused furrow of his brow, the awestruck set to his open mouth. Would his tone turn teasing in the end— _"Tell me more about these feelings you've been harboring for me, Swan—keep you up at night, do they?"—_ or would he look at her in the way only he did, a way that managed to take her breath away, even in memory?

 _"_ _You traded your ship for me?"_

 _"_ _Aye."_

She imagined it a dozen different ways, a dozen different mornings.

Some days the impulse overwhelmed her when they were running for their lives from Storybrooke's monster-of-the-week. If this was the last time they saw each other, she didn't want to leave him with any doubt.

Then she'd remember his assurance, so often repeated just to set her mind at ease— _"_ _If there's one thing I'm good at, it's surviving."—_ and her confession died on her tongue.

She never told him.

Not once.

And now she'd never get the chance.

He was taken from her by a man wearing her father's face, spitting words like venom that Emma couldn't make out. All she heard was the air leaving Killian's lungs. All she saw was his hand reaching out—reaching for her.

She didn't remember screaming—she had to have screamed. It's what people did when someone drove a dagger through their heart.

She didn't remember running—she had to have run. One moment she stood rooted in place, watching the man she—

Watching him—

Watching Killian—

And the next, Henry guided her inside the hollowed out end of a fallen tree.

She didn't remember her decision to keep going—without him—and maybe it wasn't a decision at all.

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was her nature.

Maybe it was a gentle stirring in the quiet hollows of her still-beating heart—a four-letter word she thought had abandoned her, for good this time.

Maybe it was his voice running through her thoughts, brave despite the cowardly inclinations that'd been forced upon him.

 _"_ _If I can help return things to how they were meant to be, then what happens to me here won't matter, will it?"_

—

When she finds him again, when she barrels toward him, his name falling from her lips like a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, when she hugs him with enough force to propel him backward onto her bed, when she works up the courage to tell him— _finally_ tell him—she chokes on the words she thought she'd never get the chance to say. Replaces them with gratitude that, while genuine, feels like the worst lie she's ever told. And she sees in his eyes how well he knows her.

But it's okay.

Because he's alive.

And they're together.

And they have time.

She thinks about telling him later that night, when the chaos of the day has faded to interlaced fingers beneath a starlit sky, half-whispered sentiments passing between them as Killian walks her home, the gathering at Granny's long forgotten.

She thinks about not going home.

Thinks about all the ways those three little words could manifest themselves—soft sights and brushes of skin and clothes scattered along the planks below deck.

She contemplates a thousand different scenarios, a thousand different days as she rests her head against his shoulder.

Because he's alive.

And he's hers.

And she'll never let go again.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's note: So this was supposed to be a one-shot, but I wanted to do something from Killian's perspective. I don't have plans to do more, but I didn't have plans for this one, so you never know. Thanks for reading!_**

* * *

 _"Like seeing the sun for the first time."_

This wasn't the most poetic way he'd overheard _love at first sight_ described, but it was the one that stuck with him the most. Especially poignant after long nights on his knees, scrubbing parts of the ship even her captain wouldn't go near.

Most days that first glimpse of morning sun, rising over the water as though it'd spent its absent hours safely tucked beneath the surface, that first taste of sea air coating his lungs, that first and only quiet moment before orders rolled in like the tide, were all that kept him going. They dared him to hope that better things awaited, in another time, another place. Dared him to believe, however nonsensical such an idea might be, that perhaps there was a version of him, somewhere, that'd fallen on better fortune.

When he saw _her_ , after she'd raced down the corridor, not watching her way, and crashed into him with all the grace of a battering ram, every coherent thought left his mind. Save one.

 _"Like seeing the sun for the first time."_

More than this, it was as though order had been restored to the universe, his life's purpose scrawled across an emerald plain. Whatever she asked of him, he'd gladly give.

When he'd helped the boy commandeer the Jolly Roger, Killian knew it would be the bravest thing he did that day. When he helped shoot a dragon from the sky, he knew it to be the most dangerous threat he'd face in his lifetime. And when sunlight itself closed her hand around his wrist, when the breath of her instruction grazed his neck, he knew his heart would never beat at quite the same pace.

But the time was gone too soon. Shy smiles and fluttered lashes and _"very"_ close turned to the rush of battle and a clash of swords and _"I never did like pirates."_

Terror drained the pigment from her once radiant face—but why should such a woman take pain from his demise?

A sharp exhale. A final glance.

And then the light went out.

—

When she finds him again, after he's awoken in the loft, wincing for the phantom dagger lodged in his back, after the echo of a single syllable has struck him more deeply than any mortal weapon could, when she sends them toppling onto her bed, pinning his hands above his head with a light laugh he commits quickly to memory, he makes a point of apologizing for the panic he caused.

She lets him up from the position he wasn't about to protest, and for a moment she can't quite look at him. "When I…watched you die," she tugs on his jacket collar, her gaze reaching his, "I was afraid I was never gonna get the chance to tell you something."

A confession, once buried deep, now reads like prose across an emerald page, and Killian can't help his smile.

"Tell me what?"

It's on the tip of her tongue, he can feel it—and _gods_ , it's been a solitary truth too long.

"That…I…" she smiles, and it's like a thousand he's worn since he met her. Then something shifts, "…want to thank you…"

He can't deny the cloud of disappointment he's certain crosses his eyes, steals the grin, if only temporarily, from his lips. But he understands her better than most. He knows what she came here to tell him and why she's still afraid. But feelings exist before they're formed into words, and Killian can wait to hear them.

Because he _knows_.

And he's not going anywhere.

They have all the time in the world.


End file.
